Constant Craving: Book Two, page 4
I stand in the doorway and watch as Diana goes to her desk and extracts a key. She hands it to me, and I grin. An idea comes into my mind. “I’d love to work in Justine’s office. It’s really in need of some TLC. What do you think Justine will do if I buy her new furniture for that office?”
“I think she’ll lose her shit.”
Diana cracks up, and I do, too.
* * *
A few hours later, I’m in the coffee shop across the street, my body still pulsing from staring at Justine’s mouthwatering cleavage.
And I can’t get the idea of spanking her out of my mind—why did she have to start playing with that steel ruler right there in front of me? All I wanted was to slam the door, bend her over the desk, and lift her skirt. I’d never been dominant with any woman other than Justine. Didn’t trust myself, or them, with that particular secret.
Justine has a thing for pain. Or had, with me. Jesus, I loathe the idea of any other man spanking her. Or touching her.
Did I just groan out loud? I look around, and no one in the café’s giving me funny looks, so I guess not.
Getting coffee will hopefully set me back on track to work. I need to focus on the paper and whether it’s a decent investment. As much as I want to sleep with Justine and ruin her dead father’s legacy, I also want to make some money in the process. I can’t be stupid about this deal just because I’m out for revenge and thinking with my dick.
I can’t help but smirk as I stand in line for my espresso. Justine is so fun to tease. I’d almost forgotten how her sarcastic, snarky humor made me laugh. She’s so witty and sharp—most women get tongue-tied around me and just flutter and giggle. And that shimmering, defiant gleam in Justine’s eyes when she leaned over and showed me her cleavage, coño, that was so fucking sexy.
She’ll be incredible once I finally get her in bed. How I’ll get her there is the mystery. I’d come so close last night at her house.
I tap my foot. God, this café is slow. Not like my usual places in Miami. The line crawls along. This is what happens in a small town, I guess. My mind slips back to Justine and last night and how she’d interrupted my plans with protests of not wanting to cross lines. Like Justine and I ever had any boundaries.
Still. I’ve always respected her wishes when she said no. Like when she had the miscarriage way back when. In those dark days, she’d told me to leave her alone. To not touch her. I’d refrained, as difficult as it was, thinking that’s what she’d wanted.
And somehow, because I’d done that, she’d gotten mad and left. She could have asked me to go along to Central America. But I think she’d listened to her father, who’d told her to dump me.
The sight of Mark, the café owner, interrupts my thoughts. “What’ll it be, man?”
I tap my wallet on the counter. “A triple espresso to go.” Yesterday, this guy showed a little too much interest in Justine for my liking. I warily size up the other man, assessing whether Justine would be attracted to him. Mark is tall, dark-haired, and has a big nose, not unlike me. He seems like a decent enough guy, for someone other than Justine.
Mark acted a little familiar with her, though. Had they gone out? I hate competition. The question tips me into a sour mood.
“You a friend of Justine’s?” Mark asks, working the espresso machine with rapid-fire hands. My mouth tightens.
“Yes, you could say that. We met at the University of Miami.” Mark grins again, and I tap my wallet faster on the counter. I just want to get the fuck out of here.
“Wow. I can’t imagine Justine in college. She’s something else, a real pistol. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like her. Comes in here every day. I met her when I opened the café six months ago. I’ve been thinking about asking her to dinner.”
My right hand slides off the counter and hangs by my side, instinctively twitching into a fist. It’s an old habit, left over from high school when I was an amateur boxer.
“Oh? How do you know she’s not dating someone?”
“She told me a month ago that she’s single.” Mark puts a lid on the espresso and slides it toward me.
“Thanks. I’ll take one of those pastries, too.” I throw a few dollars down as Mark steps toward a glass cabinet.
“We’ve got homemade donuts, muffins, and something new, churros.”
He says churros like an American—he can’t roll the r and it comes out sounding stiff and hard.
“Two churros please.” I trill the r and point to the long, sticklike pastry, and he slides them into a paper sleeve. Justine has always loved them.
“Thanks.” I try not to grip the coffee cup so hard that I crush it. I walk back into the newspaper. Is Justine interested in that guy? How many men has she dated since we split? Thoughts of another man touching her will spiral out of control in my mind if I dwell on it too much. When we dated in college, I tended to be hotheaded and jealous. Time and perspective have mellowed me. At least I had thought so, until the conversation with Mark. The old feelings of jealousy that cropped up in the café hadn’t emerged with any other woman.
As I stride into the newsroom, I see Justine bending over a reporter’s desk. Her wavy, dark hair is scraped back in a severe ponytail. Her nose still crinkles when she laughs, and it’s cute as hell. I stand against a wall, watching her from across the room and sipping my coffee. Who—or what—is giving Justine pleasure now? Will I ever again be the person who makes her happiest?
Probably not, because I’ve forgotten how to make anyone happy, even myself. Life is about business deals and travel and money. There’s no room in my life for frivolous emotion.
Justine stands and straightens her posture, holding her cell in one hand. The smile fades from her lips. She senses that I’m near. We have an uncanny sixth sense about each other, a magnetic pull that hasn’t faded over the years.
Her eyes scan the room until they find mine. We stare at each other for a full minute, our eyes aflame. Yes, I’ll have to think of something to get her to spend more time with me, more than a business relationship. To tease her, I look around the newsroom and sip my coffee, pretending to ignore her eyes.
What does Justine want more than anything? What would inspire her to give herself to me? What would it take to make her act the way she used to, when we were young and carefree and eager to play sexual games with each other?
My eyes land on the newspaper’s city editor, a disheveled, hulking older guy who’s hunched over a computer. He’s grumbling, and he throws his hands in the air as he stands up.
“I just don’t have enough fucking reporters to cover this city adequately,” he says in a half-shout to the nearly empty room. Hiking up his ill-fitting chinos, he walks out of the room. Yikes.
I glance at Justine, who’s staring at him, wide-eyed.
That’s when it hits me: I know exactly what to offer Justine in exchange for her time, her body, and her passion. First I must get her in the right mood, make her feel comfortable and wanted. Ease her into saying yes. I turn to my phone and tap a text to Justine.
Want a churro, little girl?
I look up in time to see her frowning, then laughing, at her phone. In my fantasies, I’m already feeding her the phallic-looking churro. She tosses her ponytail flirtatiously, and my phone buzzes.
I very much want your churro.
As she walks toward me with a sexy sway in her hips, I grin. With any luck, my proposition tonight at the ridiculous pirate party will be met with equal enthusiasm.
6
Wish
After watching her practically inhale the churro—first she licked the tip, which forced me to look away, otherwise I’d get a hard-on right in the newsroom—and then, after her big, flirtatious grin, I thought it would be easy to get Justine to agree to attend the absurd pirate party with me. But then she’d wandered off to the bathroom, checked her email, and gotten some bad news from her mentor.
By the time I was ready to ask her about her plans for the night, she’d slipped into a funk about the newspaper business, and my hopes for a night with her dwindled.
I figured that getting her out of the paper for a bit would calm her. Bring her to that park she loved. Talk it out. Once there, she’d looked at me as if she wanted to jab me in the guts with her stiletto.
Still, she eventually acquiesced to my invitation. Perhaps it was out of jealousy after I’d brought up the name of that young woman in marketing, or perhaps it was because I’d played with her hair, something she’d always loved. Jesus, I couldn’t get over her long hair. I wanted to bury my face in it, gather it in my hands like I had the other night. The long, chestnut locks made her look a little wilder than she used to.
Did she still wear glasses? She wore them when we were in school, but I hadn’t seen them on her since I’d arrived in St. Augustine. Must be wearing contacts now or had gotten laser surgery. With the long hair, the glasses would look so fucking sexy. For a few seconds while walking back to the paper, I fantasize about a naked Justine, her hair down and wearing just her glasses.
She shoots me a shy smile as I open the newspaper’s door for her, and my cock twitches.
The minute we’re back in the newsroom, I get a text from my assistant, Maria.
The St. Augustine realtor can meet in a half hour. I said you might be busy.
I look over at Justine, who is taking up residence at an empty desk in the newsroom because the workers still aren’t finished installing the new furniture in her office. Tiny lines are etched between her brows as she scowls at her laptop.
A half-hour is an excellent time to meet. Also, can you find me a pirate costume? One that can be delivered to my hotel room? Think Pirates of the Caribbean.
A pirate costume? Interesting method of deal-making you’ve got there up north. Do you also need a parrot? How about an eyepatch?
I chuckle out loud when I read Maria’s text. She’s about ten years older than me, married, and is like the big sister I never had. She’s also the sort of assistant who can make anything happen on a moment’s notice—time with the governor, last-minute reservations, pirate costumes. I don’t know how she works her magic, but she’s never let me down, no matter how outrageous my request.
I’m auditioning to be the next Johnny Depp up here. I might not return to Miami. Please send parrot.
I’m still smiling when I again look to Justine. She’s staring at me, expressionless. I’ll bet she thinks I’m texting with a woman. At this point, I’m not going to try to convince her otherwise. I stride over to her desk.
“Justi. I’ve got some business to take care of. I’ll pick you up at eight.”
She blinks and nods.
“Remember: a pirate costume.” I point at her, and she smirks.
“What kind of business?” she blurts.
Justine could never keep a question to herself. She was so insanely curious about everything. “I’ll explain later,” I say with a serious look.
A little grin crosses my lips as I walk out of the paper and to my car. Now, I’m not normally this big of an asshole with women. In fact, I have a reputation around Miami as being a pretty nice guy.
But Justine is different. Part of me wants to open my heart again to her, get on my knees and beg for forgiveness and ask her to marry me. Even now. And then another part, a darker side, still is wounded by her walking away from me.
It’s not mature, and it’s not rational.
I’ve never gotten close to many people. Other than my family—my mother, my aunt, and my uncle—I can count on one hand how many people I’ve trusted in life.
Two. Justine and David.
So when Justine left me, something inside shattered. It was as if her rejection of us was a rejection of me as a person. She didn’t stand up for us and didn’t stand by me. She let me fend for myself when I was just beginning my real estate career, when I was vulnerable and, yeah, scared.
Kind of like my mother had.
* * *
As I’m sliding behind the driver’s seat of the Tesla, my assistant texts the address of the rental I’m supposed to check out, along with an online link to the property.
This is one of the only properties with your criteria. It seems big for just you.
I open the link and scroll through the photos. It’s a historic property, Mediterranean in architecture, and, most importantly, close to the paper and to Justine’s house.
It will do. Please let the agent know I’ll be there soon.
It takes me only five minutes to get to the house from the paper, and the agent isn’t there when I pull in and park near a closed gate. Even for someone used to luxury, this property is incredible. The lush, tropical landscaping frames the house in green gradients, the leaves playing off the rich salmon color of the house. The roof has barrel tiles, the doors are arched and wooden, and there’s even a stained glass accent in what looks like a solarium.
Beautiful.
It is too big for one man. But it’s just right for one man who is trying to impress a certain woman.
I hear the sweep of tires on the driveway behind me, and an SUV parks behind my car. An older lady gets out and beams.
“You must be Mr. Menendez,” she coos.
I grin. “I am.”
“My name’s Jane. I had such a lovely conversation with your assistant.”
We shake hands, and I can tell the plump woman is a bit flustered by me. For one thing, she’s short, maybe not even five feet tall, and I’m six-two.
“Your assistant said you were looking for something temporary but in a luxury price range. This was one of our only properties in town—most of our temporary offerings are for tourists. And I take it you’re not here for pleasure.”
I chuckle. I am, in a way. If this little, frosted-haired woman knew what kind of pleasure I planned on enjoying in this house, I’d probably be thrown into the county jail.
“I’m here on business, working with the publisher of the local paper.”
The woman stops and tilts her head. “Justine Lavoie?”
Apparently, my Justine is well known around the small city if a random realtor knows her name. “Yes. Justine.”
“Such a nice girl. I’ve known that family for years. Even before…” Her voice trails off, and I know exactly what she’s going to say by the way her brow furrows. “Even before her mother and brother died in that crash. That poor little girl, having to go through all that. And then finding her father, dead. She’s had a tough life, that one.”
My chest gets a heavy feeling. “It’s a shame,” I mutter.
The woman claps her hands together. “Let’s move on to happier topics, like this incredible house. I’m certain you’ll love the inside as much as the outside. It’s fully decorated—the owner flew a lot of the furnishings in from Spain.”
I exhale, glad to change topics. With a fast gait, she rounds my car and heads toward the gate. Jane clicks a little remote, and the driveway gate swings open. “Come this way. As you’ll see, you’ll be able to park securely behind the gate…”
We walk inside and come to an arch made of jasmine. Jane unlocks it, and once inside, my eyes take in the pool, the patio, and the fountain. I imagine Justine sunbathing, naked.
“Isn’t this lovely, Mr. Menendez?”
I nod, thinking about how the blue-and-white mosaic tiles gracing the fountain remind me of the time Justine and I went to Spain. How we’d both felt at home there. How she’d asked me if we could move there if she got a reporting job for a news agency.
No, babe. I’m a Miami boy. Came here on a raft and that’s where I’m going to make it. Don’t want to start over anywhere else.
What if I had been more open to traveling with her? Would we still be together?
Jane and I are at the back door of the property. “Are you prepared to be impressed? I know you must live in a pretty incredible place in Miami. Well, at least that’s what I read about you.” She giggles and touches my arm with her pink-frosted fingertips. Everything about her is frosted. “Sorry. I did a little snooping. It’s not every day that a handsome, famous financier comes to St. Augustine and wants to rent the nicest place in town.”
“I’m just a regular realtor, Jane. Same as you.” We both chuckle, and she continues her tour, barely taking a breath as she propels me through each well-appointed room. I’m not great with decorating—I pay someone to do that for all of my properties—but I know enough to realize that this place exceeds my standards. There are open, modern spaces in some rooms, while the bedrooms are done in traditional dark woods. The master bedroom is especially appealing, with its scarlet accent walls, its candle sconces, and the enormous, four-poster wooden bed.
I pause to study the bed.
Of course, I’m imagining tying Justine to the posts. And joining her in the giant whirlpool tub. And eating with her in the sun-dappled breakfast nook.
Between the bed and the pool, I’m already sold on the place. I wonder what Justine would think of the Sub-Zero fridge, the book-lined study, the porch with the three glass walls overlooking the garden, and its tropical flowers.
When we’d lived together, she’d tried to decorate. Every six months she’d go through a new phase and buy used furniture, paint it, and make me move stuff around. I’d always grumble about it, but deep down, I liked that she wanted to make a home with me.
Until she left, and I was stuck with rooms filled with white-painted furniture stenciled with little floral patterns.
I’d gotten rid of those first.
I’d spent most of my life with my aunt and uncle, and while I loved them, I’d always felt like it was their home. Like I was a bit of an interloper because they couldn’t have children and I’d happened to come to Florida with my uncle on the raft.
The apartment that I’d shared with Justine had been my first true home. I remember how shocked she was when I’d said that to her.
You don’t recall anything about living with your mom in Havana? Justine had looked at me with pity.
I’d shaken my head and said no because I didn’t want to tell her the truth.
